Round the Garden
by Consulting Fangirl
Summary: Kidlock. Young Sherlock has the same nightmares that have become more frequent ever since his mother died. He wakes up in the middle of the night, and must brave his darkened bedroom and the hallway, with all the creatures his mind creates to lurk there, in order to come to the comforting realm of his brother's arms. Mycroft then teaches Sherlock a nursery rhyme.


_Running. He was running. Panting hard, the sweat dripping over his brow and down the side of his small face. He turned a corner, only to be met by yet another seemingly endless corridor. Thankfully soon up ahead rested a door, but it was too far away. Behind him was the creature, whatever it was, human or beast. It was impossible to tell in the flickering lights that made up the light fixtures above, spread out widely along the path of the maze. His small legs pounded on the hard cement. He had long ago left his shoes behind, the thick soles slowing the boy down. The slapping noise of his barefeet on the floor was deafening, but almost drowned out by the equally loud noise of his own heavy breathing. If he didnt stop soon he would collapse, his lungs too small to take in enough air. His head pounded with his heart beat. The sound like a drum all around, pumping the blood through his body. It was so fast the boy felt as though he might explode at any moment. He looked up to see the door rushing towards him. He didnt stop, not until he nearly hit it full on, but instead brought his hands up to pound on it. He had been here before and recognized the situation instantly. There was a handle in front of him, but far above the boy's head was a padlock, keeping the door securely shut. And no stool or ladder to stand on. Not even a box or table that might be placed in the hallway to help. _

_His flat palm turned to a fist as the small hand banged against the wood. In a matter of seconds, his hands were red and bleeding from the impact. His voice soon turned raw as he shouted as well, calling out for help from someone on the other side. But no one came, and he was out of time. The boy turned to meet his fate, the loud breathing of the creature almost upon him. He could feel the energy surging out of the thing as it neared closer and closer to the door at which the boy stood. Once again he went back to pounding on the door, yelling, jumping for the latch, anything. But it was no use. He could feel the body heat of the thing behind him, and he turned to face its glowing yellow eyes and towering stature, much taller than the six-year-old himself. He looked up afraid at what he might see, with nowhere to turn in fright._

The blue eyes opened with a start, and the small figure sat up instantly in his bed. His pajama shirt was soaked with sweat, and his hair stuck out at random angles from his tossing and turning. The room was deathly silent, except for the boys heavy breathing. The full moon outside shown through his thin window curtains, casting the light across the floor and through the room. Sherlock looked at the nightstand on his right, searching for his clock in the semi-darkness. He saw the time, a little past midnight. His eyes shot to the blue painted wall next to him, and soon his eyes wandered to the door, positioned across the room. After a few moments of studying it, Sherlock lifted his grey covers off, slid his feet over the edge of the bed, and sat there in his pajamas with his feet dangling over the bedside. The little hands set themselves back, and pushed off, sliding the boy to reach the floor. His barefeet landed with a soft thud that felt deafening in the middle of the night as it was.

Sherlock took a step forward, the floorboards creaking underneath his weight. He paused, waiting for anything in the silence of the sleeping house. Recieveing no response, Sherlock kept going, walking slowly, and sticking one hand out to catch himself. The room was just barely lit enough by the moon so that he could make out the shapes of different pieces of furniture. But their shadows lurked in the bedroom, his wild imagination turning them to images of beasts and creatures of the night. The young boy swallowed the lump in his throat, and counted to three to himself. He took a step forward, then another, holding a hand out to catch himself should he run into something. After what seemed like ages in the vast, darkened room, the six-year-old slowly reached the door. He set two little hands on the doorknob, both of them needed to turn the brass device.

With a soft click, Sherlock pulled the door open, wincing as the hinges creaked. The boy opened the exit of the room just barely enough for his small body to squeeze through. He allowed it to close on it own behind him, shutting him out of that world, and pushing him into a new one. He had reached the hallway, the long, nightmare that was the second floor of the Holmes' household. And in the darkness of the night, the only light came from a window at the very far end, and a from few rays that were slipping underneath the door he had just come through. Down the hall to his right lay the guest rooms, two of them, and his father's bedroom at the very end. Directly on his left was the bathroom shared between Sherlock and his brother. And all the way down, right before the stairs that led off into the darkened cliff of downstairs, was his older brother Mycroft's room, and the younger boy's destination. He would have to journey in the shadowed straightaway with no light, hopefully making it all the way to the safety of the older Holmes boy's room.

Sherlock decided he best start the journey sooner than later, instead of remaining in the middle of the hallway, amonst the shadows stretching across the floor and reachinng out towards him. He took one small step, setting a hand out to the side, letting it find the wall. Then the boy continued, slowly, warily, letting his hand trail along the smooth wallpaper. It bumped over the doorway of the bathroom, then along the wood door itself, before being bumped back up to the wallpaper. Concentrating on his hand, Sherlock was able to keep the shadow figures out of his mind. The boy actually closed his eyes, using his hand to guide his way along. He knew it took exactly twenty-seven paces to reach the stairs at the end, and only twenty-one to get to his brother's bedroom. He had counted one afternoon last week. Sherlock was at seventeen, feeling every inch of the wall and couting each step as he went.

The boy hesitated when he reached twenty-one. He would have to let go of his safe haven that was the wall. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at his hand, resting above shoulder height on the flat surface. He took a step forwards, letting his palm off, but his fingertips remained as though he were reaching out for it. Then he pulled away even more, leavng the longer three fingers still there. One last step, and Sherlock slid his longest finger, the middle one, along the paper one last time before crossing the hallway to the other side. But he paused in the middle. Sherlock had let his eyes wander to the darker area of the hall, a shadow lurking from underneath a potted plant. Even with the proximity of the door so small, the boy panicked a little and felt his heart beat faster.

The long tentacles reached out towards his feet, and the boy slowly turned so that he no longer had his back facing the creature. The tips of the creatures long arms were centimeters from his small toes, and Sherlock took a wary step back to farther the reach between him and it. He didn't dare take his eyes off as he moved to the side, an arm out for something to grab on to. But the beasts arm slithered out farther, reaching out for the flesh that was Sherlock's foot. The boy stumbled back, almost running the half meter to the other wall and setting a hand on it, as though this were game of tag, and the smooth wallpaper was a safe zone. Sherlock's eyes widened before he saw speck of light from the other end of the long corridor. It was almost blinding as it rushed forwards and washed out the shadow that had been a mysterious creature not two seconds ago. He let go the breath he had been holding in, and took a long, last look at the shadow, once again belonging to the potted plant, and no longer a threatening figment of his imagination.

Sherlock took the last step forwards, placing both small hands on the doorknob that was his brother's door. He turned it, pushing the door open, and once again entering a new world. This one was darker than any of the two he had ventured in. With more objects and cluttered piles, it allowed more shapes and forms to reach out from their perches. Once again the six-year-old showed hesitation. His head turned slowly to the right to find his brother's desk, and beside it a pile of books. His blue eyes began to trace the shadows along the carpetted floor, his mind searching for the creature that it would become. As Sherlock's breathing increased, and his mind raced, he willed himself to look away and find the bed and the sleeping lump of his brother. He let go of the doorknob, stepping forwards, and over the piles of cloths, books and papers. His foot landed in a shadow, and looking down, Sherlock thought of his destination ahead of him, lifting the foot slowly and placing it down elsewhere. And there he was. The edge of Myroft's bed was in front of him, and Sherlock looked up at it, and up at the covers that surrounded the shape of his sleeping brother. The boy watched the rise and fall of Mycroft's chest, and listened to the steady breathing. He saw the large hand that rested behind the head full of longer and not as curled hair.

Sherlock reached up with his hands, finding a grip strong enough to pull himself up onto the mattress. Pushing with his hands hard enough to lift himself off the floor, but not enough to shift the bed mattress and disturb his brother's slumber. One knee made it up, and then the other, Sherlock balancing on the edge of the bed. He crawled forwards in towards the middle of the mattress where Mycroft lay. Sherlock slipped his small feet under the covers, the cold skin immediatly warming underneath. Then he pushed the rest of his body under, so that only his head of dark curls remained out. Sherlock's heartbeat had slowed, his breathing steady, and his whole body relaxed. He shifted a little closer to his brother.

Lying on his back, Sherlock stared at the familiar ceiling that he had always found comfort in. His brother had glow-in-the-dark stars against the dark paint, that he had never bothered to take off. They remained there mostly because Mycroft knew how much Sherlock liked them, and recently, he had found Sherlock slipping into his bed more often. Earlier that year the boys' mother had passed away from cancer, and after that, Sherlock had been letting himself have nightmares more frequently that would wake him up in the middle of the night. The boy would climb in and Mycroft would allow it, knowing his presence and the stars on the ceiling would help the younger boy fall asleep.

Next to Sherlock, Mycroft stirred, feeling the younger boy against him. He moved his hand down from under his head to feel for the curls next to him, allowing Mycroft to identify his younger brother. He opened his eyes in the darkness, reaching his arm down to his brother's shoulder, and holding the boy closer to his own body.

"Hello, Sherlock." he whispered in the darkness, his voice soft.

"Hi, Myc." Sherlock replied, cuddling closer.

Mycroft didnt even bother to ask why his brother had come. He already knew the boy had a nightmare again. They had been to common recently for it to be anything else.

"Same one?" he asked quietly to the younger boy. He felt the slow nod of his brother's head against his body. Mycroft sat up a little in the bed, letting his back rest against the pillows behind him. He pulled Sherlock's small body farther up as well. Mycroft also knew about Sherlock's recent fear of the dark, which had grown from his frequent nightmares. He knew Sherlock allowed his mind to wander and create images out of the figures around him.

"You know they're not real." He reminded his brother who nodded again, hesitantly.

"But they seem real." replied the small voice.

"I know," Mycroft brought his hand to Sherlock's face, and brushed some of the curls out of his eyes. "but you cant let them scare you. You have to let your imagination think about something else."

"But I cant think of anything else." Sherlock replied in the darkness.

"Think about a pirate ship." Mycroft suggested. "Pretend you're a brave captain, exploring the shores of a new island. And you have your sword with you, and a brave crew to keep you safe."

Sherlock shifted his head to look up at his brother.

"Pirate's aren't scared of the dark though..." he managed glumly.

"How do you know?" Mycroft asked with a smile. "They might be, but they're pirates, which means they have courage to do anything, even if it means facing their fears."

"Even the Kraken?" the six-year-old asked.

"Even the Kraken." Mycroft returned with a smile and a small chuckle.

Sherlock continued to stare at his brother through the dark. He accepted what Mycroft said, and turned to a different matter.

"But what about the dreams?" he said quietly, shifting a little more into his brother's body.

"You cant let them bother you either." Mycroft replied. "They may seem real, but all you have to do is wake up, and brush them from your memory. You have to forget them, like I taught you."

Sherlock brushed his fingers in circular patterns on the sheet beside him.

"But I cant forget them when I wake up..." he said with a frown.

Mycroft looked at his brother sadly, then remembered a nursery rhyme his mother had taught him when he was Sherlock's age.

"Then you can remember this rhyme, and it'll help you think of something else."

"What rhyme?" Sherlock asked, looking into his brother's eyes. Mycroft brought his hand down to Sherlock's flat stomach, placing a finger on his striped pajama shirt.

"Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear," Mycroft drew circles on Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock watched his brother carefully. "One step, two step," Myrcroft walked his fingers up his brother's chest. "Tickle you under there." He finished the last part by tickling his fingers under Sherlock's chin. The six-year-old gave a giggle.

"Thats a good one, Myc." he said with a grin. "I wanna try." He turned on his side, placing a finger on Mycroft's chest just as his brother had done. "Round and round the garden," his small voice began. "like a teddy bear. One step, two step, tickle you under there!" he ran his small fingers up with a laugh, but Mycroft caught his hand with a smile before the boy could finish. Sherlock knew what was coming and tried to scramble away, but Mycroft was too fast, and continued to tickle Sherlock, holding him with one arm so he couldn't run away. The six-year-old giggled loudly, and when it turned into a high-pitched laughter, Mycroft stopped.

"Better be quiet now, we dont want to wake father." He gave a smile, and Sherlock grinned back. Sherlock reached up to wrap an arm around his brother.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

"You're welcome," he hugged his brother back, and planted a kiss on his brother's head of curls. "Sherlock." After a few minutes of silence between the two, where Mycroft allowed Sherlock to calm his energy down again, Mycroft spoke in the darkness.

"You should probably sleep now."

"Do I have to go back to my room?" Sherlock asked, looking up. He didnt want to journey back in the dark.

"Course not," Mycroft gave him a warming smile and ruffled his brother's curls. Sherlock smiled back and laid down next to his brother. Mycroft scooted down so he wasnt sitting up anymore, and pulled the covers up around them. The blankets had been tossled in Sherlock's earlier giggling.

Mycroft turned on his back, and laid an arm out for Sherlock to come sleep by. Sherlock crawled closer to his brother, setting his soft curls on Mycroft's arm, who then brought it around his brother, and rested a hand on the smaller boy's shoulder.

Sherlock nestled as closely to his brother as he could.

Mycroft looked down at the six-year-old. The younger boy's eyes were closed, and Mycroft knew he was practically asleep already. He smiled to himself and laid his head back on the pillows, staring calmly at the glowing stars on the ceiling.

When Sherlock's steady breathing reached Mycroft's ear, the older boy finally closed his eyes. The last thing he felt was his little brother moving to place his small head on his shirt, the tiny curls moving up and down with each rise and fall of Mycroft's chest.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." Mycroft whispered quietly, into the darkness.

"'Night, Myc." Sherlock mumbled in repsonse through his half-asleep state.


End file.
